Golden
by crackinthecup
Summary: In Númenor, Mairon remembers. Angbang. Featuring the One Ring used in a very unorthodox fashion.


Naked but for the band of glinting gold upon his finger, Mairon stood behind a chair, hands playing upon the wooden curlicues of its backrest. The sunlight of Númenor glared through the curtains—a bleeding burgundy that seeped behind his eyeballs even as he slept—and rippled upon a mirror, a shimmering oval thrust out upon the rosewood arm of the wardrobe.

The tap of fingers against wood. The click of nails. An absent rhythm. He strode round and settled down on the chair, seeking his own gaze in the mirror opposite. For a few moments of stillness he blinked through the flash of gold upon his finger, the whisper of blazing letters round it, before slowly plucking off the Ring; letting it shiver upon his palm, all heaviness and seamless perfection. He weighed it, he admired it, he willed it larger. With practiced care he tucked his sac into the aperture, he worked his still soft length through it until the warm metal snugly hugged his base. And then he looked up, he watched for the familiar gleam in the mirror, and with a luxurious smile leaned back and took himself in hand.

He thought of nothing, at first. Merely gazed on in languid fascination as his fingers stroked up and down his own shaft, dipping in to tease his very tip, brushing with a singe of raw power against the Ring. He could feel it tightening against his flesh as his length stiffened, and he trained his eyes on the motion of his hand, on the tiny jerk of his hips; he half swallowed down the moan that swelled in his throat.

His free hand caressed up his inner thigh, the scratch of nails against corded muscles; and instinctively the blank slate of his thoughts cracked, splintered, into all those other touches he had adored. A blackened hand teasing its way over his cock just as he himself was doing now. Kisses that left him breathless and mewling against handsome lips. He did not wholly manage to choke back the little sound of delight that found itself on his lips as gasping ardor awoke between his legs at such salacious thoughts.

Inward he skated that hand, he cupped his balls and then slid upward to nudge against the Ring. The surge of energy set flaming through his veins left him gasping, momentarily seeking the darkness of closed eyelids.

But it was not darkness at all. It was thrusts that made him splay his legs as wide as they would go; that made him stifle his screaming pleasure into the pillows and tear at the sheets until they were crinkled and furrowed, oh _please_ , anything not to touch himself just yet, to stoke this delectable, maddening fire within him as bright as it could burn. It was hands molded to his waist, his hips, bruises slotted in, a possessive touch, unquestioning and secure. It was a name, his own name, hot against his ear, kissed into the tingling flesh of his neck.

Mairon tipped his head back, and the wood of the chair stabbed into the nape of his neck, his hair tumbled all heavy and stifling around him. He was impossibly hard, _aching_ , squeezed as he was by the Ring, and with each scrape of his fingers arousal pulsed that much more vigorously between his hipbones. His eyes were still shut, tighter now, but it did not work, it did nothing to dispel the remembered glory of the press of flesh into yielding flesh.

An odd prickle needled at the corners of his eyes. He inhaled, let his rhythm slip, messier, faster, allowed the groan clinging to his lips to spill and echo. He felt the telltale tightening of his abdominals, the tension snapping through his muscles. He did nothing to stop the tears smearing over his cheeks as he lurched to his peak; nothing to block out the recollection of a sweaty shoulder, of fingers carding through his hair, sweeping it off his brow, off his equally sweaty cheeks.

Little more could he stop any of it than he could the spurt of his seed upon Pharazôn's extravagant carpet. He did not give voice to his pleasure. He sucked his lip between his teeth and rode each roll of his hips until he crumpled back against the backrest, sated and out of breath.

He blinked to dislodge the wetness clinging to his eyelashes; a quick swipe of the hand and it had never happened. The Ring he slipped anew onto his finger, and loosening wisps of his power, he coaxed it into its proper size. The mirror he used instead to curl into his robes, pick flyaway strands of hair out of his eyes. He did not bother with the carpet.


End file.
